I always wanted to be a farmer. There is a tradition of that in

Host: The field stretched endlessly beneath a bruised-blue sky — a quilt of wild grass, moss, and the quiet hum of wind rolling across the earth. The air was clean, untouched, carrying the scent of wet soil and distant rain. A flock of gulls wheeled above, their cries sharp and solitary.

At the edge of the field, Jack stood beside a rusted tractor, sleeves rolled up, boots buried in the mud. His hands were rough with work, but there was something soft in the way he looked across the land — a kind of reverence, the gaze of a man who had finally found stillness after years of noise.

Jeeny approached from the small farmhouse nearby, carrying two mugs of coffee that steamed against the chill air. She walked with the ease of someone who belonged to silence — her hair tied back, her eyes bright with the rhythm of the place.

She handed him a cup, her voice low but warm.

Jeeny: softly “Bjork once said — ‘I always wanted to be a farmer. There is a tradition of that in my family.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, staring at the horizon “I can believe that. There’s something agricultural about her — like she sings from the soil itself.”

Jeeny: grinning “Yes. Music as harvest. Emotion as crop.”

Host: The wind moved through the grass like a living thing, brushing against their clothes, whispering in a language older than speech. The sunlight broke through a patch of cloud, spilling gold across the field, lighting the world in fragments.

Jack: after a moment “You know, I get it. The older I get, the more I envy people who work with their hands — who can see the result of their labor. You plant something, tend to it, and eventually, it grows. It’s honest work. The kind that doesn’t lie to you.”

Jeeny: nodding “It’s the opposite of what most of us do now — work that never ends, that feeds machines instead of people.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. You can’t eat a spreadsheet.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or love one.”

Host: The silence between them was full — the kind of silence that spoke in rhythm with the landscape. A tractor in the distance coughed to life, birds scattered, and somewhere, a dog barked.

Jack: softly “When she said there’s a tradition in her family — I think she meant something deeper. Farming isn’t just planting crops. It’s tending continuity. It’s stewardship — of life, of time, of humility.”

Jeeny: looking out at the field “It’s sacred work. Every seed is a prayer — a quiet act of faith that something invisible will take root.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Faith without pretense. No sermons, no songs — just soil.”

Jeeny: softly “And still, it’s music, isn’t it? The rhythm of growth. The harmony between labor and patience.”

Host: The camera would move slowly around them — two figures framed by the expanse of land and sky. The world felt vast, yet intimate.

Jack: after a long pause “You know what I think farming really is? It’s an antidote to ego. You can’t control the weather, can’t force the earth. You just participate. You do your part, and you wait.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. It’s not about power. It’s about partnership. Between human hands and something infinite.”

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s why artists and farmers aren’t so different. Both live off faith — faith that creation will answer if they show up.”

Jeeny: smiling “And both deal with failure like it’s a season, not a death.”

Host: The clouds shifted again. A drizzle began to fall — light, almost musical. Neither of them moved to seek shelter. The rain was gentle, familiar, the kind that blessed rather than drowned.

Jeeny: quietly “You ever think about it? How strange it is that humans used to be farmers by necessity, and now some of us dream about it as escape.”

Jack: smiling sadly “Because we built a world that makes us hungry for simplicity. We traded meaning for convenience.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And now we romanticize the life we left behind.”

Jack: nodding “Exactly. We talk about soil like it’s poetry — but to someone who lives it, it’s just the truth. And maybe that’s what we’re all craving — truth we can touch.”

Host: The rain grew heavier for a moment, the smell of earth deepening. Jack tilted his head back, letting a few drops hit his face. Jeeny watched him, her eyes soft — not with affection alone, but understanding.

Jeeny: gently “Maybe that’s why Bjork said it with such simplicity. Not as a wish for escape, but as a return. The tradition of family isn’t about inheritance — it’s about remembering where your hands came from.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And what they were made to do.”

Jeeny: softly “To grow. To mend. To create.”

Host: The rain eased again, tapering into a mist. The sky cleared at the edges, revealing the fragile outline of a rainbow over the far hills.

Jack: quietly, almost reverent “Maybe that’s what family tradition really is — not bloodline, but rhythm. A way of belonging to the world that doesn’t require explanation.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “A rhythm that waits for us to return.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two figures small against the vastness of the field, the land stretching out like memory itself. The tractor’s sound faded, replaced by the distant cry of a bird.

And as the clouds parted completely, Björk’s words drifted through the open air — tender, simple, rooted in the soul of both earth and human:

“I always wanted to be a farmer. There is a tradition of that in my family.”

Because to farm
is to remember.

To till the ground of existence
and plant something that will outlive you.

And maybe all creation —
every song, every field, every child —
is just a way of returning
to the first rhythm we ever knew:

the rhythm of soil and soul,
of hands meeting earth,
of love disguised as labor.

And in that patient, sacred work,
we discover that home
isn’t a house or a name —
it’s the quiet humility
of belonging to the world again.